


Trapped

by blondhandsomestranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondhandsomestranger/pseuds/blondhandsomestranger
Summary: Hermione wakes up from a nightmare... and reality might prove itself a lot more interesting.Post-war, but no major characters are dead (because they just shouldn't be). Tonks/Remus and Hermione/Ron never happened





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilianPortia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilianPortia/gifts).



> This little piece is a birthday gift to LilianPortia. And I'm the worst gift-giver EVER because it's almost time for her next one already lol  
> It's broken down into two chapters because I couldn't stop tweaking the beginning and focus on the rest, but chapter two should be up by Monday.  
> I hope you enjoy this! Let me know what you think :)
> 
> P.S.: This wasn't betaed because I was waaay too excited to wait, sorry for any mistakes.

**Trapped**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

There were rules to prevent this sort of thing.

Well, not _actual_ rules, ‘precepts’ was a far more accurate definition. No law (or code, for that matter) had ‘Constant vigilance!’ written in it, though some, perhaps even all, would have, were they written by Professor Moody. Regardless of that, Hermione had taken the words to heart and they had served her well while the war raged. During that time, her wand had become her constant companion, a natural extension of her arm, and she would sooner forget to wear a piece of clothing than leave it behind.

She had grown lax. Time, safety, and comfort had ruined her. And, as she found herself in her current predicament, she could almost hear the Auror inside her head, almost see his twisting blue eye lock on her, _‘Never wander around wandless, you silly girl.’_

Of course, in her defense, even at 3 a.m. the bathroom on the third floor of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place didn’t seem to pose much of a threat. Not until she found herself stuck inside of it, at least. And not alone, too.

A nightmare had led her there. It was no longer one in which Voldemort won or Bellatrix carved her forearm all over again, shouting _Crucio_ as if a mantra. No, those had stayed in the past, apparently along with her caution. She had regular ones now – flying on (which was absurd) and falling off a broom, dying in a cauldron explosion, getting sat on or trampled by unaware giants… Nothing out of the ordinary for a witch, or so she’d been told. But tonight’s nightmare had been so much more dreadful not because she died in the end, but rather because she _didn_ _’t,_ _wouldn_ _’t_ , regardless of how much her dream-self longed to simply cease to exist. Not that her subconscious would be so kind – in her dream, her year-long crush on Remus got out and she just stood there, very much alive, as her former professor let her down easy, kind eyes and sad smile, while everyone around them laughed, dismissing her feelings as one would a schoolgirl infatuation.

In a state of mingled horror and weariness, Hermione had peeled herself out of bed, grabbed a towel, and trudged her way to the bathroom, determined to drown the memory of the dream and the accompanying anxiety under hot water. She pushed the bathroom’s parted door and took a step inside. Her dulled senses registered no sound, but her tired eyes should have noted the pile of clothes abandoned on the floor. And they would have, were they not always drawn to the bright contrast of white porcelain and tobacco-colored furniture against Slytherin-green walls, by far the most preserved display of sumptuousness of the Black's ancestral home.

In hindsight, the fact that it was light enough for her to _see_ anything should have alerted her that something was off. Hindsight, however, never helped anybody.

When the shower started by itself, Hermione froze. And then, only then, did her gaze settle on the pile of clothes – _men_ _’s_ clothes – sitting just outside the stall. She spun on her heels, her free hand reaching forward, but the door clicked closed before her eyes.

Hermione’s lungs stilled, trapping what little air that filled them inside.

“Who’s there?” A voice called. Although muffled, there was no mistaking it: it rang with the same gentleness as ever, despite her obvious intrusion.

No. Just…no.

Had one nightmare not been enough? How much torture over unrequited feelings would her mind put her through?

It was silly of her subconscious to do so. Unnecessary, for sure, for she had never contemplated the delusional notion that Remus could ever feel the same.

Unneeded reminders of this sort were rather cruel.

Yet, despite the consciousness of it being a dream, the floor underneath her feet refused to swallow her. And, when she didn’t awake, distressed but safe in her own bed, Hermione thought that, perhaps, in a wicked sort of irony, this wasn’t yet another cruel dream. Perhaps the Remus in the shower was simply… Remus.

And it was far more horrifying than any dream she could have.

“Hello?” Remus called again, his soft tone in full contrast to the feeling in her stomach.

Hermione found her voice, something Harry and Ron would argue she could never lose, but she had, for a moment, and the words almost tripped one another as they returned, “I’m so sorry, Remus, I didn’t—The door was— I’m already…” She turned the doorknob, but the door didn’t budge, “leaving.”

“Hermione?”

Hermione didn’t respond. She tried the doorknob again, pulling at the door. It yielded an inch. And it shot closed like a stretched rubber band. Reality sank in with a pleasantness equal to that of being drowned by Grindylows.

She was stuck _. In a_ _bathroom_. With Remus.

Oh, God.

A low whoosh sounded, and both the water hitting the tiles and Remus’ voice became clearer, “Hermione?”

She didn’t trust herself to face him. Instead, she grasped the metal doorknob harder, “Yes?”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” She swallowed, willing herself _not_ to think of a naked Remus behind the stall’s tinted glass. And, much like not thinking of a pink troll, not thinking of a fit, wet, and naked Remus standing less than four feet away from her failed. For instance, she was reasonably certain that _fit_ and _wet_ were adjectives that had _not_ been in her mind as she first started not thinking of him. “Except for the fact that. This. Door. Won’t. Open.”

Punctuating each word with stubborn attempts at turning and pulling the silver knob was of little avail. Even without her wand, she could still… But both the idea of Apparating and the intended location fully formed in her mind and still her body didn’t materialize outside. She made another attempt, willing it harder – and, once more, her surroundings didn’t as much as blurred. Despite all logic and the obvious knowledge of her whereabouts, she almost expected Dumbledore’s ghostlike replica to appear and inform her of the Apparition rules inside of Hogwarts, hinting at the precise extent of it before he offered a transparent lemon sherbet. That early practice at Hogwarts had been, after all, the only time she had failed at it. She shook her head – now, of all times, was not the ideal one to go mad.

“I’ll be out soon. I can give it a try,” A twinge of something bled through Remus reassuring tone, but she couldn’t put a finger on it, “If you can bear to stay?”

A sigh escaped her, “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

Well, she did. Sort of. God, the man had, just minutes before, played a featured part at her nightmare. The last thing she would want was to get trapped in another dream-like situation with him. Merlin knew what could happen this time, and she would _not_ survive the embarrassment of tripping over a towel-clad Remus or getting caught watching a water drop trickle down his chest, not without being unable to ever look him in the face again, and even as her mind conjured horrid possibilities it also knew the point was moot – leaving wasn’t exactly an option. She would just have to try very hard not to move around much. And harder still not to see trickling water drops or visible skin below Remus' face.

“Very well, I'll just…” She clutched her towel against her chest as a shield of sorts and did her best not to look up or sideways as she made her way over and around the sink, the bathtub, and the shower stall, before she sat on the closed toilet lid.

The shower drops proved themselves poor filler for the uneasy silence that ensued. For Hermione, at least. For Remus, this was likely amusing, if somewhat disconcerting – he was not the one nurturing an unrequited love for the person he was trapped with. She didn’t know whether it was seconds or minutes before Remus spoke, but neither seemed quite adequate to describe it, not when her own brain was failing miserably at devising something to say, “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you here at this hour, Hermione?”

She bit her lip, “A nightmare.”

He gave a mirthless chuckle, “Unpleasant bedmates, those.”

Tell her about it.

“And you?” Almost as a reflex, her eyes traveled towards the stall, to find it still open. And her angle was just right to catch a glimpse of his back through the open door. She stopped mid-breath, and it was all she could do to keep from gasping. His muscles were lean, even though she could now see he verged on the skinnier side underneath all his clothing – a werewolf trait, Hermione supposed, one he could never shake, despite Mrs. Weasley’s insistent attempts. Claw-shaped scars descended from Remus’ lower back, stopping just short of his butt. She swallowed, her eyes trailing downward and downward, spellbound. Had she known better, Hermione would have kept her gaze trained on the spot on the floor it had stayed so far. This was the part where she got caught, she was convinced of it.

“Thoughts,” he answered, and her brain had to focus to remember her own question. He didn’t elaborate and she thought best not to ask, lest her voice betray her, “How bad was it?”

She managed to divert her gaze then, the memory of her dream enough to discourage her dimwitted… whatever it was, “Mortifying.”

“I see,” His tone was gentle, almost concerned, and she could feel his eyes on her. It was more of a sensation rather than concrete knowledge, but it was enough for her to wonder if he had felt her gaze on him, too. But it was embarrassment, not suspicion or conceit, that seeped through his voice when he asked, “Could you pass me my towel? I wasn’t expecting company.”

Hermione’s fingers closed over the hanging towel over the bathtub, as she cared to gaze anywhere but Remus. Her wild imagination telling her that, if this were a romantic novel, now was the time when he would take her wrist instead of the offered cloth, pull her close enough for her to study every detail of his striking, scarred face, and kiss her. When he took the towel without even brushing her fingers, she cursed Ginny. Once the redhead had learned of Hermione’s weakness for the wolf, she had supplied her with all the volumes she could find starring lone, handsome werewolves meeting strong, loyal heroines they felt instantly attracted to. And who ultimately won their lonely hearts.

In the future, she would stick with textbooks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I merged chapters 2 and 3 (and I also made very small corrections). It felt more balanced that way.

Years of school pranks had taught very little to Sirius, but a great deal to Remus. Long before the incident with Snape (or _incidents_ , he should say), Remus, if not his friends, had learned to draw the line between what was acceptable and what was _not_.

He was certainly walking a very fine line now.

He hadn’t, however, planned this. Nothing about it had resembled one of his meticulously arranged practical jokes from Hogwarts, boisterous and aimed at his closest friends in particular, or at the Slytherin’s in general, with an exception or two to serve as a much-needed distraction and get them all out of trouble. It wasn’t to say, nevertheless, that he did not recognize this one. And when he heard the door closing, he’d flinched.

It was no more than a far-fetched coincidence that he turned out to be trapped with Hermione, even though she had been the reason for Remus being there in the first place – the most innocent of culprits, guilty of leaving a striking impression on a werewolf far too battered and old to believe in ideals.

Yet the thoughts of her had proved themselves as lasting and fierce as her principles. He was, after all, even if he would admit to no one else, very much in love with her.

They had often kept each other company in the library, but for most of their time there he would care not to interrupt her. Her brows would furrow in concentration and she would trap her lower lip between her teeth whenever the book proved interesting. At times, she would mumble to herself – a habit she seemed endearingly unaware of.

It had taken him months after the war to convince her to call him Remus. Until she had, not as much as called but written, while paying her parents a visit. And he had almost pictured her scratching _Professor_ several times before managing to relinquish the title; reluctant to part from the deference she always gave authority.

They would exchange birthday and Christmas gifts and write each other letters when apart, and yet, when close, there was always… distance. His words would waver and fail him, and their relationship would always return to their common interest in books and ideas. It was as it was supposed to be, as he was supposed to keep it – as friends and nothing but. And her friendship alone should make him… content.

Love was a feeling he was not entitled to nurture.

Still, once she told him the door wouldn’t open – something he already suspected would happen – Remus couldn’t bring himself to do the mature thing. The _right_ thing.

No, he would keep her, if only for a few minutes.

And, for a moment, he could have sworn he heard her heart race while he showered. A senseless impression, surely, for which he blamed both the water and his wishful imagination.

He made a quick job out of drying himself, before wrapping the towel she had given him around his waist. Unaware that she (or anyone, for that matter) would end up in that bathroom with him, he hadn’t bothered to bring along any clothing, a fact he now regretted.

Hermione would see his scarred body – likely be horrified by it. Or, worse, be reminded of what lay underneath, the very wretched creature that had given him those scars, the ugliest part of him called forth by the moon, as she had witnessed firsthand.

As Remus walked towards the door, he almost reconsidered his earlier decision – perhaps it would be best to just go for his wand underneath his abandoned clothes and undo whatever charm was in place, but something about Hermione’s scent had changed, something he couldn’t quite determine, and the thought of her leaving felt just short of unbearable loss.

 _Half-hearted attempt it was_.

* * *

Hermione huffed as Remus’ strength proved just as ineffectual as hers, “I can’t believe it… Apparation was of no use, either.”

When Remus turned to face her, it became increasingly harder to train her gaze off his chest, and Hermione wished she had something other than the sparse steam in the bathroom to blame for the heated flush rising up her throat and prickling at her cheeks, so much so that the question blurted out of her mouth before her brain could properly consider the consequences, “Do you think— _May I_ — Since we’re trapped here, would you mind if I took a bath?”

That certainly gave her reason to blush harder, but a reason nonetheless. And just the threat of self-satisfaction as Remus’ posture stiffened and his breath hitched, because it was of _some_ consolation that he wasn’t unaffected by her, even if he didn’t feel the same.

Yet that sensation withered and died when his jaw clenched and his gaze dropped to the floor. As if preparing to undergo some sort of torture.

_Wonderfully done, Hermione._

“I promise not to look,” his tone stern as he moved to take her place.

And she almost wanted to tell him it was more than she could say herself, if only it to erase his contrite look.

Hermione came to deeply regret her ill thought-out question. Even as she knotted her hair in a small bun and stepped into the hot, bubble-filled water, anxiety still churned inside her stomach, refusing to subside.

If anything she had made matters worse.

An awkward silence curled inside the room more so than it had before, the absence of shower drops more pronounced now that Remus seemed unwilling to start a conversation. He sat unnaturally still on the closed toilet lid, turned towards the wall in a crumpled position ever since he took her place there.

Nothing remotely clever came to her mind and so Hermione said nothing, sinking further into the tub and leaving the silence undisturbed except for the occasional splash of water or the almost loud pop of bubbles in contrast to the rest of the house.

That is, until footsteps thudded outside and her eyes snapped at the door.

 _“Did we catch him?”_ asked one voice as the sounds approached.

Another, almost identical one, replied,  _“No, too early for dear Ronniekins.”_

 _“He_ did _wake up this early one time.”_

_“That’s because you charmed your Quidditch bat to follow his head—”_

_“—Like a Bludger. We should’ve thought of that.”_

Hermione barely caught Remus' movement until he had set himself in front of the door.

* * *

Alarm broke through Remus’ guilt-induced torpor.

He stood, wand in hand, and rushed between Hermione and the arriving twins, shielding her from them as the bathroom door opened – an ironic, belated display of the chivalry he should have showed her since the beginning.

“Oh — Hello, Remus,” Fred and George said in unison.

“It could have been worse, I suppose,” Fred muttered, his head turning towards his brother.

“We could have locked Mom inside.”

“—Or Tonks,” Fred added with a wince, before returning his voice to the usual volume and looking at Remus, “Not that we are not  _abashed_ —”

“—terribly, terribly  _mortified_ —”

“But since you’re here—“

“—What’d you think of it?”

Despite himself, a snigger escaped Remus. He had blotched everything up already, why not give them pointers? Particularly if it would keep the pair from spotting Hermione – he could hear the dripping water, even though he had expected her to stay submerged.

“You should consider adding a magical print trigger,” Remus gave them a pointed look, before rolling his wand between his fingers, “Along with an Expelliarmus charm.”

Even after so many years, it was still odd to see the two perfectly mirrored grins.

“That’s brilliant—”

“—downright wicked—”

“—but brilliant!”

Something caught George’s eye and he bumped his shoulder against his brother’s. And Remus didn’t have to look to know what had drawn their attention because Hermione circled him, coming to a stop beside the Weasley’s.

A few short strands of her chocolate-colored hair escaped from the bun at the back of her head and clung, wet and curly, to the base of her neck. His lips parted. As his eyes trailed further down, splotches of pink peppered her chest, all the more visible against her white towel, and Remus couldn’t keep himself from wondering if it was due to the hot water or her embarrassment, even if a part of his mind argued that it was not for him to wonder. It was not for him to  _look,_ either.

“You  _knew_ of this?” Hermione asked, the inflection on her voice inquiring, not yet resentful or livid. Oh, that would come later.

Remus was faintly aware of the twins’ interjections (“—that is unexpected”, “—not at all unpleasant”, “—but  _completely_  unexpected”), his brain reeling as he tried to focus on Hermione’s words, trying to respond through the slight hum of conflicting thoughts and emotions and the twins' continued banter, “I knew they were working on something—”

“Hence the partly open door. But you had your wand,” Hermione furrowed her eyebrows once her gaze flitted toward his hand, “this entire time you had your wand.”

“—Kiss him already, Hermione.”

“—The poor man is suffering.”

He glared, then, “Goodbye George, Fred.”

The pair made themselves scarce, but there was no plausible explanation to offer Hermione and no words to contradict the twins’. Remus lowered his gaze to the ground, waiting to be met with either her fury or her pity. At this point, he didn’t know which one he would prefer.

When she didn’t say anything – a worrisome thing from someone who possessed such a lively mind – he chanced her a look.

“You trapped me,” her lips curled in a slow-growing smile Remus could not fathom, “Well, not intentionally at first, but still…”

It was safe to say that none of Remus’ imagined scenarios could account for her reaction. And he stopped trying to conjure more accurate ones when Hermione leaned forward, balancing herself on the tip of her toes, and brushed her lips against his.

It lasted no more than second and Remus opened eyes he didn’t remember closing. A glint settled in Hermione’s, one not at all unfamiliar but his inability to recognize it just seemed to prove her mind was much more disciplined than his if she was still capable of clear thought.

And he did not expect it when she took a step back and shut the door between them.

  _..._   _A challenge._

Remus flicked his wand at the door, only to find her still on the other side, her smile bordering on smug. He stepped forward and she disappeared with a crack.

He Disapparated as well, materializing at the library only to catch just a trace of her as Hermione disappeared once again.

Crack! at the drawing room, followed by another in the attic, and the corridor.

 _Crackcrackcrack._ And then he caught her as she appeared in her own room.

Remus’ vision adjusted to the fading darkness, enough to make out Hermione’s silhouette. Her chest heaved as she panted, an arm securing her towel in place. He watched as she stepped closer, deliberately, their heavy breaths mingling together, and this time he lowered to meet her lips. They were soft against his, and he almost moaned as Hermione drew back just enough to bite her lower lip.

 _“FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY, you will stop this bedlam_ this minute _!”_

They stilled. A new wave of her scent wafted as she blushed, engulfing Remus, before Hermione rested her forehead on his chest, laughing.

And he couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

* * *

 “FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY, you will stop this bedlam  _this minute_!”

“Stop what bedlam, mother?” George asked, peering at her from the top of the Daily Prophet.

“You’re going barmy, woman, we’re right here.”

Fred nicked an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table and sat back on his chair.

“But—the cracks—”

“Not us.”

“Well, not  _this_  time.”

“But we must admit we’ve been bettered.”

“They  _did_  find a much funnier game of Apparition, apparently.”

Fred took a bite of the fruit, ignoring the confused look on the Weasley matriarch, “Should we warn them? Y'know, before they wake the rest of the house?”

The two wizards pondered the idea.

“Nah.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left this story kudos! I hope you all enjoyed it (and that it wasn't too terrible a gift for Lilian :P)
> 
> Kudos and comments are great! Leave one or both if you can, I'll really appreciate it. :)
> 
> xoxo


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